Shrink
by tea break
Summary: Harry is on the verge of nervous break-down. Can a therapist help him?
1. Chapter 1

Dear fanfiction readers,

I am taking this opportunity to apologize for taking up your time for this is my first attempt at writing fanfiction and a particularly poor one. I also beg JK Rowling to forgive me my audacity to mess up with her character. Being huge HP fan I just couldn't help it. I meant no harm I swear. The last but not least confession of mine is that English is not my first language (as you probably have guessed already) so if some phrases seems uncomprehensible or otherwise mutilated I ask you to kindly disregard it. I hope you will enjoy it anyway and if you won't be too exhausted at the end I will be more than grateful for your comments. XXX

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It's sunny winter morning, which is very rare these days. Sun is shining right into my face but I'm not complaining because it helps me wake up a bit. This and half a gallon of black coffee.

It's 6:58 and I'm waiting for my first patient. Well technically I'm trying my best to keep my eyes open. I hate morning sessions (not that I've had that many so far) and this one is especially early. It's true I have office hours from 7 but honestly who comes at 7:00 to spill his heart out? It's basically still midnight for some people. It surely is for me. Usually I'm not in my office before 10. Not today though. Today is officially the first day of my therapist history when a patient, namely some Mr. Potter, booked a session for this ungodly hour. No wonder he needs a therapist, he must be a psychopath. Or a sociopath. Not to mention that he's late.

It's 7:08 and I'm still sitting at my desk waiting for my patient to show up. A patient who has an obvious problem with coming at time. I bet he's still in bed. Fast asleep. Bastard. Wow, what did I just do? I usually don't have negative thoughts about my patients, well at least not until I get to know them better. I guess it must be the sleep deprivation talking out of me.

7:14. I think that one should be considerate enough to call or otherwise let know that he's going to be late (preferably the evening before) so that others can arrange their business accordingly. That would let noone overdosed with caffeine sitting by one's self in one's office staring intently at the door. Oh, how I hate my job.

It's 7:22 and I'm trying to ignore the fact that I could have slept full 22…wait 23 minutes longer! Arrgh… I should definitely change my office hours so that no manic-depressive twerps could book in … and also because nobody should see me or anyhow interact with me before at least 9 am. For their own personal safety.

7:35. Ok, I've got enough. It's just so much one can stand. I'm officially done here. I'm going home and I'm going to sleep till noon. Well…till 11:30, I have Mr. Blossom talking about his flower-fobia at 12:00. Anyway, Mr. Poster or what's-his-name can go to …

Telephone's beeping. It's my assistant. Apparently Mr. Potter has finally succeeded to find a way to my waiting room. Excellent. I sigh. Then I yawn. Then I sigh again.

„Fine, let him in."

I arrange the most venomous smile I can manage. If Mr. Potter wants my help he has to understand that it's in his best interest to keep his therapist happy.

The door slowly opens and something black appears. It turns out to be a mop of hair on the top of a bespectacled head. Mr. Potter pokes in. Except that Mr. Potter haven't started shaving yet. He's still a boy. And not the most healthy-looking one to tell the truth. He has dark shadows under his eyes and … is it a bruise on his jaw?!? Venom is quickly fading off of my face along with the smile. Instead a worry starts creeping in. This guy is a mess. No wonder he's late. He probably has to fight his way through a horde of bullies or a pair of abusing parents with sticks, judging by the look of him.

„Good morning, Mr. Potter. Please come in." I invite him with the softest voice I am capable of.

„Good morning. I'm really sorry I'm late. But…" He pauses uncertainly with a weak smile and stays silent.

„It's fine. Don't worry." I hear myself saying. ObviousIy I don't have the nerve to chastise Mr. Potter for dragging me out of my warm bed at 6 in the morning and then making me wait for him for whole 40 minutes.

He's now standing in front of my desk, hands deep in pockets of his baggy jeans, looking around nervously. He's wearing a T-shirt at least twice his size. It makes him look even more scrawny than he really is. It doesn't help it has a huge picture of Darth Vader on the front. In fact it even highlights his throughoutly miserable outfit.

He coughs lightly.

„Please, sit down," I offer immediately feeling slightly embarrased. Apparently I have been deep in thought for awhile.

„Thank you," he replies gratefully and quickly sits on the nearest chair.

„How can I help you, Mr. Potter?" I ask motherly. With frankly non-existent experience with troubled children I secretly hope I managed a soothing tone.

„I have a problem." He chances a glance at me a slight blush creeping at his cheeks. I notice for the first time that he has bright green eyes. They are so bright and so green it's a wonder I haven't spotted them before. I'm waiting patiently for him to continue. He's frowning slightly and nervously trying to flatten his unruly hair. A fruitless attempt. He looks like a massive-electric-storm survivor. I bet some teenagers would pay a fortune to have his hairstyle.

Silence's starting to be a bit awkward. I'm fiddling with my fingers my smile faltering. He's blushing rather prominently now. In fact it has a funny effect on his othewise almost white face. He looks like someone has just slapped him. Hard.

„And what exactly is bothering you, Mr. Potter?" I try to prompt his answer. He twitches uncomfortably. I smile at him encouragingly. He opens his mouth slightly but no sound comes out. I start feeling a little stupid. Apparently so must he as he keeps opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. I'm not used to this. People usually come to me because they have a problem and need to get rid of it. But they also do TELL ME what's bothering them. He'd better say something because I really can't read his mind. A grave silence reigns over my office now and it's plainly clear that Mr. Potter is unable to verbally express himself any further. Here comes the interrogation.

I clear my throat. „Let's start with the basics, shall we? Why don't you tell me more about yourself?"

He swallows his eyes widening a bit.

„Er…I…there…there's really nothing interesting about me." He croaks apologetically.

This boy is a puzzle. Tiny drops of sweat are starting to form on my forehead. And I notice there is a slim scar on his. It looks as if someone was trying to carve a lightning bolt into his scull with a nail on a very unsteady hand. Something's telling me that children laughing at him at school won't be his main problem.

„Well, first things first. We can start by our first names? I'm Meg." I offer him my hand jovially contented with my little joke.

„I'm Harry." He answers slowly looking a bit puzzled. We shake hands very briefly.

„Nice to meet you. How old are you, Harry? Can I call you Harry?" I add hurriedly as he keeps staring at me funnily. Maybe I'm too forward for him.

„I'm 16. And yes." He adds eventually smiling slightly.

It's my turn to stare. He's 16? This scrawny unhealthy creature can't be 16. No way. 14 maybe, even 15 would go if I half-closed both of my eyes but 16…never. He's just pulling my leg or...he might be a chronical liar...

I look straight in his eyes to search for even the faintest trace of lies and surprisingly he doesn't look away. On the contrary he's looking right back and his mesmerizingly green eyes are now scrutinizing me disaprouvingly. I have a strange feeling that he can see right through me. That he can hear my every thought and doesn't like what he hears. Suddenly I feel like a rabbit hypnotized by a cobra. I'm paralyzed. I cringe under the immense intensity of his gaze. And then something in my head clicks and I finally realize that he doesn't want to read my mind he wants me to read his. All of a sudden I can see. I see all the pain and despair, all the anger and hope and ... is it love? These are not eyes of a child. I can see the weight of the whole universe in them. God, he must have been through a lot. I shudder inwardly and he finally looks away. He seems to be embarrased like if I've just disovered a pile of adult magazines under his bed. He must be hiding something really terrible. That's why it's so difficult for him to talk about it. Poor thing. But how am I supposed to help him if he doesn't let me. I have to cheer him up a bit at least.

I smile broadly and clasp my hands together. Only a beard is missing to complete my image of a good-hearted middle-aged school headmaster. He watches me cautiously sitting at the very edge of his chair. Undoubtedly ready to sprint away at the first sign of uncomfortable question.

„What is your favorite part of Star Wars?" I fire the first thing that comes to my mind. I regret it immediately.

He blinks. His face completely blank. He blinks again. Finally he compose himself enough to look at me as if my head suddenly turned yellow. What did I do? I'm really starting to get worried. Maybe he has some serious mental desease. I can't help him with that.

„Excuse me?" He croaks eventually looking throughoutly confused.

„You are a fan of Star Wars, aren't you?" I point at his T-shirt uncertainly.

„Oh." He says slowly looking down at the rather prominent picture of Darth Vader. When he looks up at me his eyes are dancing with amusement. He gives me a you-are-totally-off-the-point-woman-and-I-start-to-really-doubt-you-can-help-me-I-probably-shouldn't-go-to-a-muggle look. I gape at him for a while impressed by his ability to squeeze that much information into just one look, although I didn't quite understand the last bit.

„No. It's my cousin's." He tucks at his T-shirt slightly. Corners of his mouth are twitching as he's evidently trying his best not to laugh.

Oh. I see. I start laughing at my own stupidity. So much for cunning ideas. Here come the consequences of sleep deprivation. So now he knows that his therapist might be mental. And he's probably assumed by now that I'm not at all suitable for the job. Brilliant. "16-year-old" boy managed to reveal my trueself on the first session. Something my regular patients will hopefully never find out. I should have followed my mother's advice and studied economics. It's time to end the suffering.

„Ok, I really need some help here. If you don't tell me what's bothering you I can't help you and we are basically just torturing ourselves here." I give him a weak smile.

He genuinly smiles back.

"I'm sorry. It's just that...it's really embarrasing." He apologizes adjusting his glasses awkwardly.

"I won't laugh, I promise. I'm paid for that."

He smiles at my poor attempt for a joke and take a deep breath. I catch my breath and brace myself against all possible terrors that are about to be revealed.

"Actually, I'm in love."


	2. Chapter 2

For those of you who survived my first chapter here is another one:) Thank you for your comments! XXX

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I must have misheard. I surely did.

In my office reigns a ringing silence now. I stare wide-eyed at my patient who've just made a confession of his life. Or so I guess judging by the all-physical-laws-breaking speed with which his face turned deep scarlet.

"Excuse me?" I finally manage to choke out clutching my desk for support.

"Er...I'm in love?" This time it comes out more like a question. "With a girl." He adds hastily, a picture of pure embarrassment imprinted on his face. Suddenly the absurd hilarity of the situation hits me fully and I suppress the urge to start laughing manically. Here I am expecting he would tell me something really terrible like him killing someone in self-defense or being forced to take drugs against his will...and here he is telling me he's in love. IN LOVE. If God exists he must be having hysterics right now. And so would I if it wasn't for the thoroughly miserable person in my office who is now evidently trying to merge with the chair he's sitting on. His cheeks are so red that I can feel the heat radiating from him.

"Well, that doesn't sound that terrible to me." I voice out my thoughts unable to suppress amusement. His deep red face shots me an I'm-about-to-die-of-heartache-so-I-really-don't-see-anything-funny-about-it look. I must have clearly misunderstood him.

"You...you don't understand." I know that already. He sighs. Undoubtedly he's starting to realize what a mistake he's done by seeking a therapist in the first place (not to mention a therapist like me). He murmurs something like: "For Merlin's sake, what am I doing here," and rubs his face roughly with both hands. I notice he has a thin scar on his right hand. It almost looks like a short message written by someone with a very bad handwriting. But I can't tell for sure, it's too tiny and I forgot my contacts today (frankly I was glad I could find my bathroom). I'm wondering how many scars does this boy have. I decide I really don't want to know.

He gets up abruptly. "Thank you for your time", he mumbles addressing his shoelaces. I watch him readjusting his battered glasses and then stuck his hands deep into pockets of his baggy jeans. There is definitely something eerie about him. He gives me one last quick look and turns to leave. I suddenly realize I don't want to let him go. Not yet. Some part of my brain seems to take pity on him and some other part, the most dominant one, wants to know more about this boy. So I hear myself saying: "Harry, being in love is beautiful. What seems to be the problem?" This time I am genuinely concerned and try with all my might to show it on my tired face.

He stops with his hand on the doorknob no doubt surprised by my sudden interest. He scrutinize me for a long moment. He opens his mouth only to close it again apparently torn between his resolution to never speak to any therapist ever again and his desperate need for one. Finally he let go of the doorknob and sits back uncertainly.

This lad must be surely desperate. Nothing but a total desperation can lead a teenage puberty-stricken boy to expose himself to some middle-aged female therapist in order to seek for some love-advice. I must give him credit for it. He's certainly not a coward. I will try my best to help him although I am more of a don't-kill-or-otherwise-harm-yourself-and-everything-will-be-alright kind of a therapist. I obviously tend to underestimate pure agony of a teenage love.

"So you are in love." I assume feeling little stupid for stating the obvious.

"Yes." He replies shortly giving me a long searching look. I hold his gaze without twitching a muscle. I try to tell him wordlessly that I am on his side even though it doesn't seem so at first. Ever so slowly something changes in his expression. He still stares at me cautiously but his eyes are no longer wary. I feel as if I had passed some sort of test. He takes a deep breath...

"I don't know what to do...I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't concentrate, I can't...I can't stop thinking about her." He hurls out breathlessly as if afraid that someone might stop him and he will never be able to voice out his sufferings. "She's on my mind all time. Even_ now_." He adds weakly. Then he gets a grip on himself and sets his jaw. "I can't afford it."

OK, he lost me again. I thought this would be a classic case of "I love her but she doesn't even know I exist" problem. I could cope with that. I see it in romantic comedies all the time. He'd simply just need to get really good at some sport, start singing in a school play or totally change his outfit. But this...who can't afford to be in love at 16?

"Why?" I ask simply puzzled.

"Why what?"

"Why can't you afford it?" I lived under the impression a bit of snogging isn't that time consuming.

"Well...it's complicated." He shifts uncomfortably. I raise my eyebrows questioningly. I'm really curious what revelation will come out of him this time.

"I need to concentrate on... much more important things right now." He concludes in a resolute tone that clearly says that I'm not getting any more information out of him even if I stood on my head. He's not even blushing any more. I'm impressed.

"Ok. Fine. Tell me more about your girl then." I offer a change of a subject.

"She's not my girl." He corrects me automatically and for a brief moment he looks like a little boy whose favorite toy was stolen. She must mean a lot for him. So I was right after all. This IS a classic romantic-film story. Now I just need to find out whether he needs sport, singing or outfit solution.

"What is she like?" I put on my motherly tone.

He looks at me incredulously. "I don't want to talk about her. What I want is to _get her out of my mind_!" He raises his voice emphasing last words as if speaking to a simpleton.

A bit melodramatic, aren't we? "I can't change your feelings like that," I flip my fingers. "I'm a therapist, I can't do magic." I grin at him. He simply glares back.

I must make clear what I can do for him. I most certainly don't prescribe pills that erase girls out of one's mind at a command. "I can help you slowly change your feelings for her. But for that I will need you to tell me more about her. We can find she's not so perfect and then you might realize that she's not worth all the trouble." Or that a toned body or a better taste in dressing is all you need to win her heart.

He shoots me a doubtful look but then nods resignedly. "Fine."

"So what is she like?"

"She's divine." He says without hesitation and for a brief second his eyes gleam dreamily as if he remembered some particularly fine feature of his "divine" girlfriend. I try to picture her myself. My inner eye presents me a girl-angel impersonated. She has long blond hair always flawlessly arranged into perfect curls, heavenly blue eyes with eyelashes capable of causing a hurricane and body like a model. She needs a special house for all her clothes and loves puppies. The whole world is wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger and boys got dreamy-gleamy eyed whenever they see her. And they drool. And Harry drools the most...

I realize I'm grinning madly and Harry is giving me a funny look.

"And what does she look like?" I ask quickly trying to suppress the image of drooling Harry in my mind.

"Well, she's heaven..." Harry starts and then stops when I let out a half-suppressed giggle.

"Please continue." I smile apologetically.

"She...she has beautiful eyes." He continues cautiously but then his eyes got that dreamy gleam again and he starts describing her as if she was just standing right before him. "Sometimes they're the colour of dark chocolate... and sometimes they are like honey, almost golden. I could look into them for hours and still wouldn't be able to tell the right shade."

With each word his gaze gets more gleamy and his smile widens until finally he wears a scull-splitting grin. His eyes are glistening feverishly and his cheeks are flushed. "She has tiny freckles all over her face. Especially on her nose. I'd love to count them but I don't want to stare too much." His smile fades for a moment but then he regains his manic expression again.

"She has brilliant hair. They tend to fall into her eyes whenever she concentrates on something and then she tries to blow them away... it never works." He chuckles lightly. "Her hair are most beautiful in the sun, they sort of glint and glitter. I always want to just run my fingers through them... to find out if they are as fine as they look." He raises his hand and runs his fingers through imaginary scalp of hair in the air. He's in some state of frenzy and it starts to be pretty terrifying..

"She has the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. It warms me from head to toes and I suddenly feel I can manage anything in the world. It's even better than Patronus." Patronus? What the hell is Patronus? I just hope it's not some hallucinogen. "And her lips. They're perfect..." He gets suddenly serious staring intently at some point in the air. He tilts his head slightly to the right his gaze burning with intensity. With his hand still running through imaginary hair he starts to lean forward pursing his lips. It takes me a stunned second before I realize what he's doing. He's about to kiss his imaginary girlfriend... Ok, that's it.

"Why, she sounds a real charmer!" I point out loudly. Although it's not my image of an angel impersonated.

He shots me an irritated look as if I have just really interrupted his snogging session. Then he looks at his hand holding invisible lock of "brilliant hair" and his eyes slowly widen. Reality must have finally sink on him. Or so I guess for his gleamy expression is quickly replaced by a mortified one.

"Er...I, um, I'm..." He stutters.

"The way you described her I understand why you're in love with her." I wink at him in crazy attempt to ease his utter embarrassment. Somehow it didn't work and he's now red as a CocaCola can.

"What does she do? Is she your classmate?" I offer a new topic giving him time to restore his dignity.

"I know her from school." He replies shortly obviously not wanting to get carried away again. I don't blame him.

"And how does she feel about you? Are you close?"

He nods uncertainly. "She's my friend... sort of."

"Sort of?"

"It's not important really. I can't go out with her even if I wanted to. It's too dangerous." He stops suddenly a flick of panic in his eyes. He clearly said more than he wanted.

"Why is it dangerous? Is she dangerous?" I ask a bit alarmed. The last thing this boy needs is a dangerous girl to fall in love with. I bet she's some beautiful junky using this "Patronus" and seducing young boys to lure money out of them. No wonder her eyes change colour she's probably high all the time.

"No. It's me. I'm dangerous." He confesses grimly.


	3. Chapter 3

Here comes the final chapter of my therapist saga Hope you will forgive me for my very very late update and hope you going to like it. If you will have some spare time I'd be more than glad for your reviews.

„I beg you pardon?" For a zillionth time in this hour I'm totally confused. I feel like I'm losing more and more of my brain cells every minute.

He shakes his head slightly, fists clenched. His eyes are squinted as he seems to be fighting some internal battle. I am silently waiting for him to finally explode but to my immense relief he just sighs resignedly. „It's dangerous to be around me, to be close to me." He explains sadly. „So many people I cared about just … died." He adds gravely, his voice barely audible. For a moment I think that he's going to cry but then he sits up straighter and looks me in the eye. His look is as hard as a rock, no trace of tears. Yet somehow I can see all the pain and sufferings behind. I haven´t lost anybody in my life yet (if I don't count a hamster I once had when I was 5) but suddenly I can taste how it really feels to have to bury people close to you and it's too overwhelming. For the second time in an hour I find myself lost in Harry's gaze and in the end it's me who have to fight back tears. Now what? How am I supposed console him? He is obviously coping better than me.

„Do you want to talk about it?" I find my voice finally, it sounds unnaturally high. „I need to know everything"… even though I don't want to…„to be able to help you..." even though I don't know how.

„No one can help me" He laughs bitterly and I have a strange feeling that he's right. Then he gives me another scrutinizing look as if deciding whether I'm trustworthy enough. I'm too tired to pretend anything and deep down I know that whatever he might tell me I very probably won´t be able to help him... so I just patiently stare back at him. After a while Harry finally decides to share with me his secrets (or maybe he´s just already too worn out) and his expression softens, he hangs his head slightly and starts to speak...

„To make a long story short…"

„You don't have to. We've got as much time as you want."

He gives me a look that clearly says that this is exactly why he is making it as short as possible.

"Well, basically...there's this man who's after me. He wants to kill me practically since I was born and he almost succeeded several times. He killed my parents, my godfather, my friend...He will never stop." He recounts his story tiredly and automatically as if he was reading a kidney pie recipe. I can't believe my ears. This boy was quite sympathic to me just a minute ago and now he's trying to make me believe his cock-and-bull stories. A man who wants to kill him since his infancy? It sounds more like a sequel to _Godfather_, he can't possibly think I'm going to buy it. I gravely assume that Harry is probably addicted to „Patronus" himself, whatever it is. Nobody normal can have such green eyes anyway.

„I am the only one who can stop this man. Who… who can kill him." He finishes his story with grave face, all sincerity.

I take a deep breath and try to find the best way how to gently let him know that I _know_ he's lying. After few minutes of silence I realize that I can't. I just can't tell him that he probably lives in his fantasies however terrifying they might be, that he's afraid of his own nightmarish hallucinations. I can't because I know that as soon as I say it I loose him. I loose his trust. And I'm done.

„And this man. What is his name?" I investigate further desperate to find something real in his story. Something to build on.

„Lord Voldemort." Perfect, I shouldn't have asked.

„Impressive." I point out sarcastically and regret it immediately.

„You don't believe me, do you?" He accuses me brusquely, I can hear the hurt in his voice. I feel terrible.

„I'm trying to... but to be honest it sounds more like a movie script than a life of a teenage boy." Although I doubt anybody would watch a film about a mass murderer called „Lord Voldemort " chasing a bespectacled kid.

„Well, unfortunately that's what's my life's all about." He retorts angrily. „I wish it was just a movie script. Trust me I do." He adds bitterly, his eyes shining eerily. „If you don't believe me I think I'd better go." He concludes resolutely, and for the second time in one hour he gets up from his chair and reaches for the door.

Damn, this time I messed up badly. Harry is the most interesting and complicated patient I've had so far, I just can't let him leave, not like that. „Please, don't go." I plead. „I want to help you, I really do...but you have to help me as well."

He stops but stays at the door not bothering to come back this time. It is evident that he doubts I can help him ever. I doubt that too. But I'm too stubborn to give up.

„Surely, you must know how unbelievable your life sounds to other people. I really want to believe you, but I need more facts." And also some _dope_ probably.

He shakes his head. „It's too dangerous. The more you know about me the bigger danger you are in. I shouldn't have come in the first place." He talks more to himself than to me. He takes off his glasses and massages the bridge of nose wearily. I can see the dark circles under his eyes and holes in his T-shirt and feel a sudden urge to hug him. Poor boy. So much worries for such young a kid. What danger could possibly encounter me because of him? A bunch of teenagers with baseball bats will come to demolish my office? Woooo, scary...

„But you did come and I'm involved already, so please let me help."

He watches me thoughtfully, then subconsciously he checks the back pocket of his jeans where I can see some wooden stick poking out and his eyes twinkle for a moment.

„OK. But you will not interrupt me." He commands and sits back on his chair.

„I'm fine with that." I smile, relieved.

Surprisingly he smiles back at me. And I wonder how one human being could be so complicated. He takes a deep breath and starts talking...

...and he talks and talks and talks. It's highly impressive for such a taciturn person to suddenly talk so much. I suspect he's probably never talked so much in his life. And he obviously has a lot to say. It's a remarkably long story, it's longer than any story I've ever heard. After several minutes I got a head like a balloon but Harry seems to have barely started. It's undoubtedly the longest story ever. There are bullying cousins, witches and wizards, flying cars and sword fights in it. There are also creatures I've never heard of. What the hell is a "dementor"? He is telling the story of his life but to me it's more like a fairytale. He talks about spells and jinxes as if they were an everyday part of his life. My mind is wheeling. Talking ghosts and flying broomsticks. When we get to a part where he writes with his own blood my stomach makes somersaults and by the time Harry finishes I see little unicorns running around my head. I'm in a state I could believe everything. Everything but his story.

I sigh, feeling more heavy than ever before in my life. Harry on the other hand seems somewhat happier and brighter – as if his nightmares diminished a bit by sharing them with me. He is sitting in front of me with a hopeful expression on his face, undoubtedly expecting some sort of absolution. A recipe to happiness. How am I supposed to help a loony boy who is in love with a beautiful girl? Maybe the girl is imaginary too.

„That was... interesting. So you are a wizard, right?" Always agree with crazy people.

He frowns and pulls the mysterious stick out of his back pocket. It reminds of a wand used by an old magician during a performance at my school back when I was 7, this wand might as well belonged to him as it looks kind of shabby. He murmurs something and wave the stick. I childishly expect bunch of doves burst out of his enormous t-shirt but instead I feel my chair (with me on it) lifting up and levitating at least 2 feet above the floor, heading stubbornly higher. I let out a surprised yelp.

„What...how did you do it?" I shriek, feeling like a 7 year old girl again.

„Magic" He replies simply, grinning. He waves his wand again and I gently land on the floor.

„Well, I must admit it was impressive, Harry Potter. I should take your autograph in case you become famous." I joke, feeling slightly light headed. I grin madly at him, suppressing the urge to ask him what else he can bring on.

„I didn't do it to impress you. I wanted to _prove_ that I'm a wizard!" He points out desperately.

„I know, point taken. I believe you." I say calmly and to my surprise I mean it.

„Well, now you know everything, just as you wanted. So you can finally help me, right." He retorts, clearly still angry about my little joke.

„OK, taking into account all your personal details I've just heard... I must admit that you are pretty much doomed." What the hell is wrong with me. I can't stop making jokes. And even when I see the murderous look on Harry's face I can't stop grinning. With a rising suspicion that he must have jinxed me or something I voice out my worries: „You put a spell on me!" and then realizing what I've just said and start laughing manically.

Harry stares back at me. Then he stares at his wand. Then back at me and back at his wand. Finally the frown on his face is replaced by some sort of comprehension.

"I'm sorry." He apologizes mildly. "I didn't know magic could have any side effects on Muggles."

I didn't understand a word he said so I just giggle. He looks really desperate now and he flicks his wand one more time.

Suddenly I feel a very unpleasant icy sensation creep up my spine and end up feeling like somebody slapped my face with a wet towel.

"What...what was that?" I whisper slowly. I have a strong suspicion I'd puke if I spoke more loudly.

"A Sobering Charm." Harry states matter-of-factly. He seems relieved that I don't giggle any more. Well, to be honest I actually feel like I'd never be able to giggle ever again.

"Having you as a patient is a true adventure, Harry." I smile weakly and sweep sweat off of my forehead. I feel drained and stupid. "If all you had said is true then I'm not sure I am the right person to help you. It's beyond my knowledge." I admit sadly.

Harry just shakes his head. He must have suspected it since he first saw me. "I thought so." He voices out his opinion and I feel a slight pang of anger. It's not like I didn't try.

"Well, I tried. But wizards and magic is not in my competence." I add sheepishly. He sighs.

"I can't help you as a wizard, but I can help you as a boy." I try to smile but my muscles don't obey.

"But I _am_ a wizard." He points out desperately.

"Yes, you are. But above all you are a teenage boy. And until you let yourself be a normal teenager the whole "fate thing" put aside then I can't help you."

"What do you mean?"

"Harry, let yourself be _just_ Harry. You are in love, so go for it. Kiss your girl, laugh with her, forget everything else for a while. And when your life battle comes eventually you will at least have something to keep you going."

He just stares at me. He opens his mouth clearly to protest but doesn't find the right to say so he closes his mouth again. After a long moment of silence he gives me a hopeful look.

"You really think I should kiss her? Just like that without, you know, asking her out first or something?" His cheeks are scarlet again and he looks more fragile than ever. If I say a wrong word he might as well shutter to million pieces.

"Yes, I think it's the most effective way how to declare your feelings for a girl." I smile at him encouragingly and hope with all my heart that the girl won't slap him if he tries to kiss her.

"But what if..."

"Life is too short," and your life might be even shorter than those of others, "to miss your chances."

He blinks. "OK, then. I will." He nods resolutely and I feel a warming wave of relief washing over me. For the first time I achieved something real with my patient. Though I don't know how I did it exactly.

For a moment we just grin at each other stupidly. Life is good after all. Then Harry stands up and offers me his hand to shake. "Thank you very much." His eyes are twinkling happily and all his body seems to be radiating with anticipation.

"It was pleasure to have you here, Harry. I hope to see you again sometimes."

"No offence, but I hope I won't need any more visits."

I laugh and shake my head. "No, I mean, I was hoping you will stop-by just to give me news about your girl. What is her name anyway?"

"Her name is Ginny." He grins widely and pulls out his stick-wand again. "And I'm sorry but I think it won't be necessary. You wouldn't remember anything anyway." He points the wand at my face with apologetic smile on his face and I feel my smile fading quickly.

What the …

"Obliviate."

It's sunny winter noon, which is very annoying in fact. Sun is shining right into my face and it efficiently wakes me up. For some reason I fell asleep on my desk and ended up having series of Star Wars dreams. Oh God, I slept for the whole 3 hours. I feel dizzy and angry, and on top of it I can't remember why I came to work so early this morning. I need to change my office hours, and I definitely need a cup of coffee.

As I raise from my chair I got a fleeting sensation that I'm floating few inches above the ground. Maybe I'd rather go to bed.


End file.
